Happy birthday, you said
bending over to kiss my cheek.
And with my fluttering heart and flaming blush
I decided that was my first kiss,
that all the others did not count.
Because I wanted my first kiss to come from you,
my heart believed it had.
poem- boxed September 21, 2015
You’re inside a box,
safe within your preconceptions,
covered with the dirt of mediocrity,
buried alive.
poem-waving September 20, 2015
Between the slats of the Venetian blinds,
I see outside the window, to frenzied frolicking
blue spruce bouncing
pine tree pirouetting
maple making waves
beneath a grey sky
dancing in time to my wind chime’s tune.
poem-elephant dreams September 19, 2015
If elephants dream
is it of grey nasal caresses,
flapping tails and
family strolls in the savannah?
Are elephants dreams
larger than life,
a two year gestation
of what might be?
poem- alienation September 18, 2015
She speaks of the alienation of senses.
vision fades
hearing lies
touch hurts
taste dulls
smell empties
What remains is the acute sense of memory
and occasionally a sense of humour
at the irony
of it all.
poem- censored September 15, 2015
You do not believe in censorship
you say
and yet you sit there and complain that
I accept work with curses. Work that is
about process, about drafting, about stretching.
I do not censor youthful voices
that may want to shout,
to try new language, new words.
We learn about audience and persona
and your child is allowed to stretch her wings
to try on new faces and expressions with me.
She is allowed to find her voice in my class room,
even if her voice
is louder than you like.
poem- poet air September 14, 2015
In the classroom,
words fill the air,
hovering above student heads.
I blow gently and
floating words drift,
falling into outstretched hands
dropping into open mouths
forming ideas,
transforming notions,
dribbling out their pens.
poem- extra-sensory perception
I see through poet’s eyes
life recorded in metaphor
ideas dancing with possibilities.
I hear through poet’s ears
the humming of memory
the clatter of change
the sibilance of serenity
I touch through poet’s hands
hard thoughts,
rough realities,
soft dreams.
I smell through a poet’s nose
freshly mown hay of a summer day
leaves burning in an autumn evening
I taste through a poet’s tongue
the sourness of betrayals
the sweetness of hope
The poet has an infinity of senses
that reach into history
and unravel mysteries.
poem- Mom
Today is my mom’s 86th birthday, so I wrote her a poem:
.
My mother is a sewing machine
Stitching life together like a quilt.
She can make anything grow
as the needle whirs and punctures
Creating history.
Shawn L. Bird 